The Blue Ink

We’re recording the results gained from the review of the former position holder’s playbook, so, as I recall the reasons for the last failure to human design, I’ll reiterate. I don’t fucking like sports. The swamps of oblivion’s night orbiting in the dead astral belt, exit into the desert if to choose the wrong out house. Climbed down the mountain, literature of Gaia dawned on the skin, said to tell tale of the fabled one—shit, the sequence’s widening frequency tripped the sensors. Who’s to say. The reference is too far detached; the material is appropriately throwing up question marks for more than I feel is necessary. How great is this? Stupendous without the stupefying irony. Holding free these notions of glee, excellence of this stolen land is becoming my new name, not THAT name. Or it’s meaning, coupled with the spiritual seething photos added to expert's docket Webster’s minagery, figure below says see love, mispronounced and all but what douche bag insults my native tongue? Beheading at noon?

Beastly sleepy, steeped in—my head hurts. Feel the weight of my attempt to temples. Death flirts again. Be and don’t be, have been, plus been in a few key photos. That’s normal? Formally fuck you. That was sarcasm. Why they’ve never met you?

How could they.

The equipment takes extra patience—yeah, right, new parts. Stand by your ethereal repurposed alchemical garden runes. Breathe, asshole. Written in a different state of mind, this poem took six hours. Brain fills, eyes won’t—am I allowed to be honest. Think I was too honest? Flooded behind the bulletproof lids and lashes. Hide nothing, be nothing. You don’t get it, never do. But please don’t die…for something stupid. Un-fucking-believable. I like to think, apparently. Nothing comes from it. Burns energy, controls the body to adjust the entropy. Either way, Nothing to see here. Move along, move along, mind your feet…

Welcome to the stone dead edition, Love, Absurdity, Poetic Justice Laced Revenge. That’s the spirit, that’s the Detective Daemon, flaming from there, overcharged. (No) No regard for my sensitivity, and that’s what, what vessel is for? No longer poor, (somewhat) fucking with the sciences of the eerie sort of the Lone Hyena, I laugh, ‘quit playing,’ narrowly missing that lion swipe. Foxes are the best distractions—laugh harder when I distract them from the tree, witnessing this cat/mouse dilemma. They, you, start banging on the fence—“Can they see us? Hello!?” That’s not even the knock I ignored. “There isn’t even a latch…” my blade sharp, I’ve already connected with-oh right, that pesky high ground. Shaky start, keeping ten toes down. Cackling in my echolocation, saw the simulation crack under pressure; I just lack in all the human-resources textbooks, but like the tourists could ever ruffle my feathers—then you shitheads always do. It’s going in the weeds, growing; without seeds, enjoy the water; for now, it’s all you need.